Say You're Sorry
by Maejones
Summary: A Shezzolly redemption story. Sherlolly but with Sherlock at his worst as Shezza. A bit cracky, very angsty. Breaks the fourth wall for something different. Humor and love, what more can you ask? Oh, yeah, there WILL be smut :)
1. Chapter 1

Molly rubbed her towel on her head and then tossed it over the back of one of her kitchen chairs. She glanced over to her smartphone and saw an insistent red flash. She picked it up from the counter as she slid onto one of the stools and dialed her voicemail.

"You have … two … new messages," she heard the electronic keeper say.

"Imagine that," she murmured.

After a few taps on her touch screen, a familiar deep voice reverberated from the speaker. As always, the first few seconds of hearing his voice were bliss. However, pleasure was soon displaced by dismay.

". . . Mm, um, whut? Oh, yesss, Molly. Mo-olly H-Hoooper. I require your assistance. Very, very important case-"

The sound of shuffling could be heard and then a thump, a click and a beep indicating the end of the message. Molly inhaled quickly and advanced to the next message on her voicemail.

"Right, therissumthing … WRONG!"

She hissed and yanked the phone from her ear as several beeps blared from her mobile's speakers. She shifted on her kitchen stool and peeped over her screen at her clock above her dining table. She was comfortably dressed in her sky blue, penguin patterned pajamas and nearly ready for bed but something told her she wasn't getting any sleep any time soon. She sighed and pressed nine to erase the messages. Just as she was about to exit from her inbox, she heard two subdued pulses indicating someone had left yet another message. She stared down at her cell ruefully with her nose scrunched. An uneven exhalation later, she played the latest message.

"Molly! Molly, Molly, Molly, Molly, Molly … Molly … Molly … Molly … . . . Maaah-lly … …Maaaaaahllllllllyyyyy. Hey, it's Shezza. Call me back, m'kay?"

Her lips pulled down at the corners as she tried to prevent them from quivering. Sherlock sounded high, in fact, very high and possibly also drunk. She quickly sent a text off to Mycroft.

 _Shezza just called. -Molly_

After a few seconds, her phone vibrated in her hands from a lightning quick response.

 _What does he need? – MH_

 _I do not know yet. –Molly_

 _Would you mind determining his location? He seems to have found a way to disable his GPS. -MH_

 _I suppose. –Molly_

 _Unless it is too much trouble? I could send some of my people out to look for him. –MH_

Molly chewed her lip as she read the latest message. They both knew that Sherlock would never allow Mycroft to pick him up in his current state. He might be high as a mountain goat in the Andes, but he was still Sherlock Holmes. Even at his worst, he was bloody brilliant. If he did not want to be found, he would not be found. Simple as that.

 _I will take care of it. Never mind. –Molly_

 _Thank you, Dr. Hooper. You will let me know if there is anything I can do? –MH_

 _Probably not. –Molly_

She could almost hear his sigh.

 _Yes. Understood. Good luck. –MH_

Molly thought their conversation was finished but then her phone vibrated several more times.

 _Please do let me know if he is alright. –MH_

 _I worry about him. –MH_

 _Do not tell him that! It makes things worse. –MH_

She smiled sadly and tapped a swift reply.

 _I won't. Goodnight. –Molly_

 _Goodnight. –MH_

Once more, Molly stared down at the screen of her mobile until it dimmed and went black. She then straightened her back and squared her shoulders as she dialed Sherlock's number. Just when she thought it would go to his voicemail, she heard someone answer. However, it was not smooth as the other end of the line was fumbled; several bumps and scrapes could be heard.

"Sherlock?"

Instead of an immediate answer, she was greeted by heavy breathing akin to a dog panting and slobbering into the speaker.

"Sherlock!"

Molly grunted when again, he didn't respond. "Oh, God, fine! Shezza!?"

"Ah, well, hu-llo, Molly. How's my gal?"

She covered her eyes with her hand. "Not your gal."

"My … chick?" He sounded so very Sherlock in the way he said that, as if 'chick' was foreign, hard to pronounce noun.

"No."

"Fine, fine!" He slurred his words, "I know you hate me. You always hate me …"

Molly leaned on her counter on her elbows. She rubbed the bridge of her nose.

"I don't hate you."

He was suddenly articulate. "Great! Can you come pick me up then?"

She wanted to say no but she could never say no to him and Mycroft Holmes knew this very well. After that terrible Christmas when Sherlock had guessed how she felt about him, his older brother had surmised the very same thing days later. He had then pressed upon her to assist in his younger brother's rehabilitation. He had convinced her to become part of what he called, 'a permanent solution'.

 _"He needs you, Molly Hooper,"_ Mycroft had goaded _. "He needs you to keep him straight."_

Oh, the Holmes! They had a way of pushing one's buttons. Of course she had agreed to regularly test Sherlock and as their relationship developed and they had become friends, she had taken on the role of his sober coach as well. Her dedication to the detective had cost her dearly, though. She was alone again after being deserted by Tom.

"Molly? Mo-o-o-lly, you have to help me. I do not know where I am."

"Truly, Sherlock? How can you not know?"

She heard a snort and a round of hacking. "Well, you see, it is very simple. I am intoxicated."

Molly let out a noisy groan. Mycroft's voice echoed between her ears.

 _"Of course, you appreciate that this won't be easy. You will have to be strong. You will have to be stronger than Sherlock because he sees emotions as weakness. He abhors weakness. If you at all allow yourself to appear too emotionally compromised, he will not let you hold moral authority over him. He will be out of your reach."_

Little help that advice had been. They had failed him. She had failed him. The best she could do at that point was try to minimize the damage he inflicted upon himself.

"Can you at least describe your surroundings?" She asked.

"I am in London! I am sure I am. Though, it might be Birmingham. There are townhouses. I can see a church!"

"Yeah, Sherlock, that really narrows it down," she mumbled. "How about a street sign or better yet, a crossroads?"

She heard the beginnings of a yawn. "You know what, I'm bored and sleepy and … sssooo tired. I'm going to sleep. There's a lovely thick bush near this intersection …"

No!" Molly jumped from her stool and stomped her foot on her tiles. "No, tell me where you are!"

"Buuuuut …"

"Sherlock Holmes, Shezza, tell me where you are or so help me I will drive around until I find you and … and then run you over because I am that unhappy with you."

She heard the rattle of a tongue stuck out and air blown past it. "Whatevs, fine, come rescue me if you must. I will be under a fern near … erm, Connaught and Portsea. Yeesss, thatz what the sign sayzzz."

"Sherlock," she said sternly, "Sherlock, do not go to sleep. I am coming to get you."

There was no answer.

"Sherlock?"

She could still hear his breathing.

"Shezza?!"

He gurgled. "What? Are you here already? Can you see my hand? I'm waving it."

"No, I don't, I-"

"I'm waving it faster. Here, now I am waving a piece of the fern …"

Molly chose not to linger another second. She threw on a sweater, slipped into her shoes and flew out the door still wearing her pajamas.

* * *

An hour later, Molly pulled her little Vauxhall Astra up on the curb near the intersection of Connaught and Portsea. She looked around the dark streets. There was a bit of a green space aptly named Connaught Square. She knew Sherlock had to be in there somewhere. It didn't take her long to find him. Almost the moment she stepped thought a break in the black iron fence, she saw a pair of trainers with white soles poking out from under a bush and onto the path. She hurried over to the prone male form and leaned over him. Sherlock had collapsed on his stomach, his arms underneath his torso, and snored into the dirt. His wild curls were shiny and matted as if he had not bathed in days, He wore a loose, grey tracksuit. She sighed as she kneeled down and brushed a lock from his forehead. He was fortunate he had not been discovered and hauled off to a sobering center.

"Ahem, Sherlock," she poked him

He grunted and shrugged her off. Another snore rattled the air.

"Shezza!" She smacked him on the cheek.

He jerked awake. His eyes shot open.

"Molly?" He sputtered into the dirt.

"Uh, huh."

He flipped on his side and held up a hand.

"Come to join me?" He wagged his brows.

"Definitely not, come on now, up with you."

He sniffed. "Meh."

Sherlock closed his eyes and promptly passed out again. Molly growled and whacked his cheek several times until he swatted her hand away.

"Thatz vera rude," he mumbled. "You're not nice. I don't think I like you."

Molly tugged at his arm. "Get up! Get up and get your arse in my car right now or I am calling Mycroft."

That threat seemed to penetrate his addled mind. Of course, she still had to help him to her Astra. He leaned on her so heavily, she almost buckled under his weight but managed to get him into her car. A few minutes later, they were underway with Sherlock's chin resting on the half-open window. That was how Molly's night wrapped. In her passenger's mirror, she watched the lights of the shops whip by while a trail of Shezza's puke was sucked out and down the side of her little, red coupe.


	2. Chapter 2

_Mae here, I bend a few rules in this. A drug recovery fic is bound to do that. Cameos for two of my faves and a fourth-wall break for fans of Deadpool._

 _There's a method to my madness!_

* * *

Shezza awoke the next morning feeling very much as Shezza typically felt after a night like the one he'd had . . . godawful. He groaned and cracked open an eye. The room he occupied was decorated with dainty, rose-smattered wall paper as well as an assortment of neatly arranged hand-creams and lotions atop an antique dresser while a tabby nonchalantly licked his hindquarters on a wicker chaise. Shezza lifted a limp arm and rubbed the bridge of his nose. He knew this place very well. It was Molly's flat or her bedroom to be more precise. He hissed. A sharp pained lanced between his eyes as his alter ego Sherlock Holmes slashed to the forefront of his mind wielding a red-hot machete. He was desperate to leave her home as soon as possible. He had never encountered her after a rescue before and he was not about to start. For some reason, Sherlock Holmes could live with himself if he could avoid Molly Hooper as he transitioned to back to sanity.

His mind made up, he heaved himself to a sitting position. He reeled, his hasty levitation was a little too quick. His stomach listed like a cruise ship taking on water. He squeezed his eyes shut for a few moments. Disjointed but mortifying memories flooded back like a tide of sewage. What had started out as a quick fix had morphed into a full on bender. The heroin-cocaine mix he acquired had been weak and hadn't done the job. When he had returned to the flop-house for more, a party had been in full swing. His alter-ego Shezza had accepted one drink, then another, and then was lost, desperate for any kind of altered state. He had vague recollections of imbibing in mushrooms and marijuana. In fact, the evening had been a veritable smorgasboard of intoxication. He was fortunate he hadn't blown a frontal lobe.

Later, he had stumbled from the party knowing he was in a bad way and called the one person he knew he could count on. Molly hadn't been easy on him though. After they returned to her flat, she had stripped him naked, forced him into an icy shower and scrubbed his flesh raw with a plastic poof laden with raspberry-pomegranate body wash. He touched the back of his neck where his skin still tingled. Who knew those wads of soft webbing could feel like sandpaper when employed by a vengeful sprite?

He slapped a hand to his face as humiliation stole over his flesh hotly. Molly had seen him naked and covered with puke. He winced and sucked a breath in through his teeth. He looked down at his clothing as he swung his legs over the side of the bed and stood up. Not only had she seen him unclothed, she had redressed him as well. He was garbed in a close-fitting, white, unisex university tee and snug, peach capris. He glanced sideways at the mirror. There was bold lettering on the seat of the pants. He turned and looked over his shoulder.

"Good, Lord," he muttered.

'SASSY' was spelled out in bright, pink characters across his backside. A lifetime of mockery awaited if Mycroft ever beheld him in this get up. He glanced around but his clothing was nowhere to be found. He had no doubt that Molly had put his clothing the wash. Still, he had to go. His legs twitched as if he were a runner preparing to sprint. The only thing he feared more than Mycroft's condemnation was facing his savior after how he had behaved. Molly's eyes weren't just a window to her soul, they were mirrors. His was not a reflection he wanted to see in them this morning.

He slunk out of her room and tip-toed down the hall toward the entry. However, his feet would not co-operate. His weight shifted and he lurched towards one wall. He slid along it for a bit trying to regain his posture but bumped into a small table. He just managed to catch a ceramic figurine before it smashed on the unforgiving floor. He carefully set it upright when the shrill mewl of a cat pierced the air at his back.

"Sh-shh," Sherlock turned and waved at the feline. "Get!"

Toby plodded up to him and head-butted his leg.

"Maaarooow!"

"Infernal, cat! Shush!"

He scooted Toby away with his foot as he tried to step into his shoes. He peered back down the hall towards the spare bedroom door with its hand-painted 'Guest' sign. Fortunately, nothing seemed to stir within. He breathed a sigh of relief, ever-so-cautiously disengaged the deadbolt, and cranked the doorknob. He was mid-step out the flat when he walked into something solid.

"Oy, I don' think so, Mr. Holmes," someone warned and shoved him back with a meaty paw.

Sherlock blinked several times at the broad figure of a brawler dressed in an immaculate black suit.

"Who the devil are you?" He sputtered.

"Fil," he said simply and jerked his head sideways at a burly companion, "an' this is Leem. We 'ave orders to prevent you from leavin' this place."

Sherlock shook his head as he studied the pair of large men in the corridor outside Molly's flat. They were agents, he was sure of it, and related - brothers, most likely.

"On whose authority?" Sherlock bit out.

Fil gave him a knowing smile and twitched his brows. "The highest."

There was little point in being cryptic, Sherlock thought. He knew exactly who would give such orders.

He frowned. "Mycroft!"

The slightly shorter, albeit, still rather large Leem extracted a crisp from a bag and shook his head as he stuffed it in his mouth.

"Nope, not the boss. Think loftier," he spit out crumbs.

"Above Mycroft?" Sherlock scrunched his nose, Mycroft _was_ the British Government. "The Prime Minister?"

Leem snorted, laughed and blinked at his brother through lazy lids. "Nah, I thought you said 'e was clever, Fil."

The exchange was beginning to grate on Sherlock's nerves. "Who gives you license to keep me here, then? The Queen? Please don't tell me God spoke to you or some such gibberish."

Leem leaned forward. He glanced apprehensively at the ceiling and whispered conspiratorially (as if I couldn't hear him, ha!).

"You ain't far off, Holmes. I'm pretty certain she thinks of 'erself as a queen or God even but I don't have a proper name for 'er, you get me? All I know is that I wouldn't be 'ere if it weren't for the lady upstairs so I don't question her plans. She's the director, that's all ya need to know and it's best if ya accede to 'er wishes."

Sherlock bristled. "Why? What could this powerful mystery woman possibly do to me?"

(Ah Sweetums, you have no idea!)

Fill smirked and tugged at the cuffs on his suit as he peered around to look at Sherlock's capris. "I don' know, Princess, 'ave you looked in the mirror lately?"

The detective scrutinized his ludicrous garb. "Molly is responsible for this . . ."

Leem crunched on another crisp. "Sure she is."

Sherlock stood there a moment assessing his situation. There was something familiar about the two agents, yet he was convinced he had never met them (you're getting warm, Sherly, but it was a different story). He half-turned but then pivoted back with a brow raised.

"If I try to leave regardless, I will not succeed, will I?"

The brothers shook their closely shorn heads in unison.

"We's able to beat you by design, Mr. Holmes. Sorry, as it is written, so it shall be."

(my boys are so clever!)

Sherlock nodded and drifted backwards. Just as he went to close the door and return to the flat, Fil reached out and yanked him forwards.

"Be nice ta Dr. Molly, understand?" Fil insisted gruffly.

Sherlock looked down his nose. His hackles raised.

"Remove your hands before I remove them from your wrists," he ground out.

Fil shoved him backwards. "Wanker."

With a shake of his head, Sherlock closed the front door to Molly's apartment and blinked at its faded light green paint. He raked his fingers through his hair and perplexed over the unexpected development and the bizzare encounter with the agents. Why would anyone want to confine him to Molly's flat? He looked down the hall to the narrow window leading out to the fire escape and contemplated sneaking out. Just as he started in that direction, Molly stepped from her room into the hall wearing a fluffly, yellow robe. Her hair was spun up in a loose bun atop her head. Stray tresses wisped around her pale face. It was as if the fates (or someone infinitely more diabolical) conspired to keep him within the apartment. He cursed under his breath the moment her brown topaz eyes lifted to his. He was not prepared for the impact of that eye contact. Then her lashes twitched and her lips trembled with emotion. She may as well have crossed the expanse and slapped him. Suddenly, his guts churned and a bout of nausea assailed him. Perhaps he had not recovered after all.

Sherlock slumped against the wall, unable to hold himself up any longer. "Please, gaze elsewhere if you cannot stand the sight of me."

She did not speak. A tortuous silence ensued as he panted against the wall in an attempt to settle the boiling acid in his stomach. Finally, she gestured limply towards her room.

"Go back to bed. You cannot leave so you may as well sleep."

"Molly-"

A grimace crossed her features briefly. Her chest rose and fell as she attempted to suppress the conflicted feelings so evident in her expression. Finally, she whirled. He staggered after her and just caught her before she reached the guest room. Words failed him for a moment as she turned to face him once more. The glaring sunshine through the hall window backlit her haphazard coif which made her look as if she had a halo. Her dark eyes glittered sadly up at him. She was an angel he did not deserve.

He wanted to shake sense into her. He reached for her but his hands jerked to a stop and hovered in place either side of her arms. He moved his hands upwards but again, they floated over her shoulders. He had never really had all that much contact with her when he was lucid. She always existed an acquaintance in theory rather than corporal form. Truthfully, he was afraid to touch her as if the memory of such contact might become an invisible tattoo.

However, his palms finally found a home when they cupped Molly's face. He sucked in a breath as her soft skin warmed his fingers. Involuntarily, his thumbs brushed her cheek, she relaxed and leaned into his hand. An irrisistable gravity caused him to drift into her space until he could feel the bottom of her fuzzy robe brush his legs. She swayed towards him in turn. He felt the gentle flattening of her breasts on his chest and was forced to drop his hold to her lower back. In an instant, he was awash with a thousand different imaginings of what could be under her wrap. It was not lost on him that he need only loosen the tie at her waist to find out if she were additionally clothed. He glanced at her lips. All at once, he was acutely aware of the proximity of her small frame and felt a rumble in his chest like a silverback defending his territory. Terrified by the direction of his thoughts, he retreated back to the safety of pretending she was not also reacting to him with potent physicality.

"Molly," his voice shook as he studied her pale face with its dark smudges beneath her eyes, "you do not have to endure me. Please, just call off the gargoyles at the door and let me leave."

Her eyes fluttered open, she appeared perplexed for an instant. "Oh, . . . oh, hell no . . . Shezza! Shezza has returned, has he? You think I am just going let you slink away and back into the wild to continue doing what you were doing?"

She jerked backwards and cinched her tie even tighter. Her face flushed pink.

"God! You must be getting desperate," she swirled a finger up and down in front of herself before jabbing her finger at her own chest, "yeah, desperate if you've resorted to putting the moves on me. Damn, damn and double damn! You had me going there a minute! You are so good . . ."

She looked askance with her lips pressed together and shook her head vigorously. A loud gurgled emitted from his abdomen.

"I . . . have to . . . go-"

"No. Not going to happen, Shezza!" She sneered.

Sherlock leaned on the wall and doubled over. He felt more rotten by the moment.

"I am not Shezza at the moment," he rasped.

"You're whomever I say you are until we sort this all out."

Finally, Sherlock rose up. He straightened his spine and expended his remaining energy to step towards Molly with determination.

"I don't know what the lot of you think you can accomplish by keeping me here but you will not succeed. I'm a lost cause, Molly. I am broken beyond repair. Now, give me my clothes and let me get the hell out of here."

She did not even shrink a little. Her chin lifted in defiance.

"No."

He deflated and teetered backwards. He threw his hands at the roof in exasperation.

"Grr, why?"

Molly's voice was barely above a whisper when she replied. "People aren't inanimate objects. They don't break, Sherlock. You are not broken."

She had a pained expression as her voice took on a pleading tone.

"A-And you're not lost," she dashed away a tear, "y-you're here."

She pointed her finger towards the floor.

"You are here."


	3. Chapter 3

"Stop, Molly Hooper!"

Molly froze at the bottom of the stairs as her landlord, Mr. Ahmadi, barreled into the front hall below her flat on Whiston St. She hunched her shoulders and turned around reluctantly. Her rubber soles squeaked on the faded, green tiled floors.

"Ah, Hello, Mr. Ahmadi. How are you?" She asked cheerfully.

The middle-aged, stocky man shook his head and gestured up the worn, carpeted stairs towards the upper floor. His bushy brows drew together in obvious irritation.

"Your husband has turned my building into a . . . a party house! I will not have it!"

Molly's cheeks flushed hot. "He is not my husband, Mr. Ahmadi-"

Her landlord shook his head and pointed at the ceiling. "Under this roof, he is known as your husband or Mrs. Ahmadi will have my head, understand?"

Molly nodded quickly.

"And the other two, those are your brothers."

She gritted her teeth and raised her brows. "Erm, yeees?"

He nodded and then his expression softened. "Now, I do not know why you are sheltering this . . . Mr. Shezza, but the noise and the people coming and going at all hours must stop."

Molly smacked a hand to her face and groaned. She was just coming off a graveyard shift at the morgue. She could only imagine what Sherlock and Mycroft's two agents had gotten up to after a week of confinement in her flat. Following a few steadying breaths, she peeked through her fingers at her landlord.

"I apologize for my . . . h-husband," she sighed. "I will try to reign him in."

Mr. Ahmadi nodded and clapped his hands together. "Good, good. Alright, _Mrs_. Shezza, I trust you will do that but I will tell you right now. If there are any further disturbances, the whole lot of you will have to find a new place to stay."

"There won't be-"

" _Ra-ta-tat-tat-tat-tat. Whooooosh. BOOOOOM!"_

Molly scowled as the sounds of a warzone reverberated from the upper floor. She hiked her bag up on her shoulder, gave Mr. Ahmadi an apologetic look and then sprinted up the steps to her flat. She fumbled with her keys as another barrage of intense percussion rattled the door. Cheers and whoops could be heard coming from within. Finally, she swung open the door and stormed inside.

"What the hell is going on in here!?" She shouted.

However, she knew the answer to her own question as she surveyed the scene. There was a massive flat screen television displaying what looked like animated soldiers going postal on one another on her coffee table. The TV that was so large, in fact, she wasn't even sure how it managed to find its way into her home. Several electronic components and consoles with wires snaked every which way. Two satellite banks of speakers produced a cacophony of battle sounds.

Her gaze shot immediately to Sherlock wedged between the two agents who had been guarding him. He quickly slunk back into the middle seat and pulled the hood of his dark blue track suit lower to conceal his face. He jammed his hand into a bag of crisps atop his lap and stuffed one in his mouth. She huffed and turned her attention to Leem and Fil who peered up at her with anxious expressions like kids caught with contraband. The agents certainly had made themselves comfortable. They had discarded their suit jackets and ties, their sleeves were rolled up over their brawny forearms and for some reason, Fil's feet were bare. Yet, this did not even compare to Leem's state of undress. He perched on the edge of his seat sans pants. She stared stunned at the gun strapped around his shapely, muscular thigh just below his snug boxer-briefs a moment before she dropped her bag and started waving her hands. She squeezed her eyes shut.

"Oh . . . dear . . . God! I am well aware that there is some sort of gaming marathon going on here. That part is obvious but . . . why," she pointed in older brother Leem's general direction without opening her eyes and then shook her finger unsteadily, "why the hell aren't you wearing pants, Leem?"

Molly heard some shuffling. When she deigned to open her eyes again, Leem was just stuffing the ends of his shirt in his pants. His face was so red she could almost feel the heat from his skin.

"Sorry, Dr. Molly, I spilled some beer-"

Every muscle in Molly's body tensed and she sucked in a breath. "What!?"

She had a more thorough look around at her disaster of a flat. There were empty beer cans everywhere. Fil appeared to notice where her gaze lingered. He jumped to his feet and immediately began to collect the discarded containers. When he happened closer, she grabbed a magazine from a nearby end table and whacked him in the butt with it. He scuttled away with an armful of cans. She resumed focus on the occupants of her peach hued, flower-print sofa.

"How could you?" She knew she sounded hysterical over the sounds emitting from the thumping speakers. "Whose idea was this? Oh, my Lord! Will someone turn down this racket?"

Leem slowly rose with a hand raised limply and muted the stereo. "Sorry. We meant ta clear the mess out before you got home."

Molly stood there nearly panting in anger. Sherlock turned slightly, peered at her and then swiftly slouched down again.

"That's not what she meant," he finally muttered from beneath his hood. "She's worried about the alcohol."

Leem blanched as he glanced between Sherlock and Molly. "Ah, he didn't 'ave any, Doctor. I promise."

She jammed her hands on her hips. "How would you know? Especially if you've been drinking?"

Fil poked his head from around the kitchen corner. "To be honest, Dr. Molly, one doesn't exactly need ta be in top form to watch this pansy-"

Sherlock sat forward and yanked the hood from his head. His mass of dark curls crackled with static and stood on end. "Pansy?"

Fil lifted his chin. "Yeah, I said it!"

Sherlock stood up. His chest expanded as he started forwards. Leem stepped towards him with an open palm and muttered a warning. The two men, with Sherlock just having a slight edge on height, squared off like a pair of goliaths about to battle. Molly stomped her foot. She had had enough.

"That's it! Fil, Leem, clean up this mess and then get the hell out!"

Leem pouted over his shoulder. "But-"

"No!" Molly bit out. "No, I need you to leave for a while. I've seen too much of you, waaay too much today, and I'm sure our observers have too."

She jerked her head upwards to make her point.

Fil stepped outside of the kitchen and crossed his arms. "Nah-ah. The readers like us."

Molly snorted. "Not all of them. Some of them find you annoying."

Fil's lips turned down in disbelief as he fished his mobile from his back pocket and thumbed through something on his screen. After a couple seconds he held up a finger and wagged it emphatically.

"That's not what the comments section on previous stories featuring us say. In fact, we have some particularly devoted fans. For example, a member known as Deby45 wants to adopt us."

Leem smirked and gestured to Fil. "Oh, oh, yeah, 'e's right. There's that cute one. Erm, the little one, NotQuiteSoBigKid. I think she's sweet on me."

Molly huffed. "You're married to a girl named Katherine, aren't you?"

Leem frowned. "Well, shite! Shite! I am now, I guess! Thanks a lot."

She sighed. "You know what, don't clean. I need you both to leave right now. Go!"

The two agents grumbled as they collected their things. A few choice words were exchanged between Sherlock and the boys before Molly chased them from her flat. At long last, she turned to the wayward detective. His hands were jammed in the front pockets of his hoodie. His messy locks stuck up in every direction. Her fingers wiggled at her sides. She wanted to tame his hair but she also wanted to choke him with his own drawstrings.

"What!?" He blurted out.

"You know what," she growled, "same as every day. Drop your pants."


	4. Chapter 4

Molly retrieved her bag and extracted one of her sealed sample cups from the lab. "You're right, we don't need to do this out here. We can use the loo."

She poked the large detective in the back and propelled him towards her hall. He muttered to himself as he trudged down the hall. She followed him until they were both in the small room. Sherlock sighed as he stepped in front of the toilet, then reached a hand back.

"Give it to me," he bit out.

Molly slapped the cup in his hand then stepped back against the wall and prepared for her favorite part of the day. She chewed her lip as she watched his broad back and shoulders flex beneath his hoodie. Then, he shuffled around and tugged down his waistband. The top of his superbly rounded bum came into view. Of course, she had seen him fully naked the night she had picked him up but hadn't really been able to appreciate his fantastic physique as she had been too focused on scrubbing him clean.

Sherlock filled the cup as she snapped on a pair of latex gloves. Once he was finished, he handed her the still warm cup sheepishly. Her face heated as she wrote the date in marker and sealed it in a baggie. She set the sample down on the bathroom vanity next to the sink.

"Nu-uh," she warned when he pulled up his pants, "I am not done with you yet. You need another injection."

He sneered over his shoulder. "How many of these stabs does one have to endure?"

Molly prepared a vial and syringe for injection. "This is the second. There will be one more in another week and that should do it."

The injections were part of a Mycroft's final solution for his little brother, an experimental opioid vaccine that the Brits had developed. Once administered, any man-made opioid based pain relievers, such as the morphine that Sherlock preferred, were essentially blocked by the body's own immune system. It had proven effective but this could be problematic for the recipient. If Sherlock ever had surgery or a major injury, he would have to be administered less common, often less effective pain medications or go under anesthesia for even minor procedures. There were also potential negative side effects. Most of the program participants became hyper-sensitive to their body's naturally produced opioids and thus, were compelled to stress their body to produce them. A handful of recipients became marathoners to revel in a running high while others morbidly obese due to over-eating. An extremely small percentage of those dosed turned into sex addicts. However, she and a few MI6 techs had done their best to predict Sherlock's reaction through a lot of pre-tests. He should be spared the worst of the side-effects with only a mild increase in sensitivity.

Molly laid the syringe down on the edge of the counter and ripped open a disinfectant pack. She shook out the wipe. She smiled to herself as her eyes flicked to his bum again.

"Alright, Sherlock, all set. I want to see that arse," she suppressed a giddy giggle.

He moved to pull his track pants down but hesitated. He frowned over his shoulder.

"Can't this 'vaccine' be injected into my arm?"

Molly felt her cheeks warm. In fact, it could, but she would not give up her one little pleasure in all this.

"No! It is much more effective if delivered directly into the buttocks," not a complete lie, she told herself, "I am the doctor here, Mr. Holmes, and you are my patient. So, if value your health at all, you will do as I instruct."

He glowered at her suspiciously, then capitulated.

"Fine, but let's get this over with!" He muttered and yanked down his pants.

She gulped as his perfect backside and muscular upper thigh was revealed. She sucked in her bottom lip and stepped closer to wipe and area on the side of his bum. It flexed beneath her fingers as she swirled the moist toilette in a circular motion. Not a standard practice but hopefully he didn't notice.

"You are being awfully thorough, Dr. Hooper," Sherlock's eyebrow raised.

Her face flamed. "This isn't exactly a sterile facility!"

She finished and threw the wipe in the rubbish bin next to the toilet. After the sting of the disinfectant cleared from her nostrils, a clean scent of greenery and citrus wafted to her from the large man with undertones of his maleness.

"You smell nice today," she said cheerfully and then instantly regretted it for how asinine she sounded.

"I showered," he murmured, "isn't that encouraged in this whole sobering regime?"

Molly nodded quickly. "Yes, o-of course. Erm, alright, relax . . . this should just pinch a bit. Sorry."

She grabbed the syringe, squirted the air out, hovered over the spot where she would hit his muscle and buried the needle with a quick jab. His bum flinched and she found herself rubbing it as she depressed the plunger. She cooed soothing words absentmindedly, pulled back the syringe once she was finished, and held a puff of cotton against the injection site.

"Hold this, mm?"

Sherlock stuck a finger on the puff while she put the syringe in a plastic case and back in her bag to be disposed of at the hospital later. Then, she whipped out a little round bandage with a bee print motif. She held it up for him to see and beamed.

"I snagged this one just for you," she lovingly applied it over his puncture wound and patted his bum a final time, "you did good!"

He pulled up his pants with a somewhat perplexed look on his face and then turned slowly. Molly found herself right underneath him and could see every hair on his face. He was a bit scruffy, he hadn't bothered to shave but it didn't diminish his beauty at all. He was a ridiculous man, actually. She sighed as she studied him. Then, his eyes constricted and he inhaled a deep breath. Suddenly, he looked very intense and her insides felt as if they were a flurry of insects. His eyes scanned down her face and lingered on her parted lips.

"Are you this attentive to all your patients, Doctor?" He murmured.

Molly stared wide-eyed up at him. She nervously jerked off her gloves. She didn't understand his expression. She had never felt as if she was a subject of fixation before by him.

"N-No, I mean, they're usually dead. You're not . . . you're vital, I mean, you're very much alive and I . . . good lord, Sherlock . . ."

She bumped into the corner of the vanity and gasped. That's when she felt him grab the front of her jumper and pull her forwards. She had to crane her neck to look up at him but only saw a shadow as his head descended. Then, his lips sought hers; hot and demanding. A tidal wave of sensation assaulted her abdomen and drained down to the intimate place between her thighs. She nearly melted. Sherlock Holmes was kissing her! She could even feel the slight stubble from around his lips. She was stunned a few seconds but the feel of his supple flesh coaxing hers was too much to ignore. She steadied herself on his chest and responded shyly. A sound rumbled deep from within his chest and he clutched her close to him.

The pressure of his lips increased. Molly was nearly delirious with the effect his moist, pliant lips had on her constitution. They slid over and gently tugged at hers like something out of a wet dream. He opened his mouth and she eagerly followed suit. When their tongues touched for the first time, she felt him shudder but then he snapped his head back with a hiss. His whole body jerked as he held her, something began to stir against her torso through several layers of clothing.

"Hu-unh," he breathed, "uuuh. God! What on Earth-?"

Then, almost as soon as it had begun, he let go of her like a spinning discus. She stumbled and found support on the vanity again. He pressed himself back against the wall breathing heavily. He stared at her for several seconds looking as if he wanted to devour her whole.

"Molly," his voice rattled, "you need to leave this flat at once."

She swallowed. She started to protest but he shook his head and splayed his hands on the wall at his back.

"You do not understand, I am suffering an abnormally acute physical reaction to what we just did. I need to . . . I need to dispel it and if you remain, I will take it out on your body. Do you understand?"

She huffed a hot breath through her nostrils as her sex responded to the lust-filled timber of his voice. A deep longing made her feel empty between her legs.

He waved a hand at her. "No! Stop looking at me that way! I fear I will hurt you."

"Y-You wouldn't hurt me," she whispered.

She bit her lip. Oh, hell-in-a-handbasket, what was she thinking? Sherlock groaned and rubbed a hand over his face. He hit a fist against the wall. His jaw was clenched.

"Please, just . . . go. I do not want you like this . . . not like this . . ."

Molly felt as if she had been doused by liquid nitrogen. Cold penetrated her guts while her skin burned. Of course he did not really want her . . . not Molly Hooper. He was just suffering a side-effect from the vaccine and she had unwittingly tried to take advantage of it. She grabbed her things and scrambled to leave. She felt two inches tall.

"I-I . . . I am so sorry, Sherlock," she cried, "I shouldn't have . . . I mean, that was wrong of me . . . o-of course you d-don't. Of course you don't-"

"Christ, it's not -! Molly!" He called after her as she fled.

However, Molly didn't stop. She ran from the flat as fast as her legs could carry her and then, once out on the street, burst into tears.


	5. Chapter 5

Molly wiped angry tears from her eyes with the back of her sleeve as she made her way away from her flat. She stumbled over a crack in the sidewalk. An older gent raised his eyes as he passed by but she lifted her chin and sniffed. She did not want anyone's pity.

To her left, a shadow loomed and her attention was drawn sideways to the grotesque profile of a black Fiat Multipla as it rolled to a halt. She frowned at its bulbous, tumor-like design. It truly was one of the ugliest vehicles on any British motorway but this particular car looked like a wannabe MI6 fleet vehicle with its opaque tinted windows and unmarked tires. As she pondered its government-issue vibe, the rear door popped open.

"Dr. Hooper, a word," a haughty male voice called.

Molly's steps slowed and she stopped. Her eyes rolled skywards.

"Seriously?"

* * *

My fingers pause on the keys. The scene I am writing grinds to a halt. Molly taps her foot on the sidewalk.

 _"Okay, what do you want?"_ I ask, my nose wrinkles.

"Really? You just had Sherlock crush my heart in the last chapter and now I have to deal with his condescending older brother? This after like a three month hiatus from updating? This is the best you can do for me right now? Oh, and these Mycroft scenes never end well for me. He always, always says something ghastly!"

 _"Well, sorry, sweet-cheeks, that's kinda what Myc does. It would be out of character otherwise."_

Molly blows a hair out of her face. "Pfft. Why can't you just write me winning the lottery and meeting Sherlock's doppleganger? Ooh, what about that Khanolly fic? Can't you write me into that one? He sounds dreamy and I could use an adventure."

 _"Trust me, he's an even bigger douche right now and besides, what would I do with Molly in that AU? She's infected with red matter. She needs to be, um . . . kept in submission by Khan."_

Molly groans. "But I'm stuck with the Shezzolly version of Sherlock! What did I do to deserve that? Your first chapter was bloody depressing to be in, by the way! He vomited in my car. Vomited. In. My. Car! It's such a lovely little coupe, too, and now it stinks."

I sigh. _"Alright, yes, that was a bit mean. Fine, I am taking care of it as we speak. Mycroft borrowed it and sent it for detailing. Also, I have upgraded it to the turbo version . . . and I added a kick-arse stereo. Happy?"_

Molly presses her lips together a moment, somewhat mollified, I hope. "It's a start."

Then her lip starts to quiver.

 _"Gawd! Don't cry!"_

Molly dashes a tear away. "I-I don't just want to sleep with Sherlock, you know. I mean, I do and if you are planning for it, that would be lovely . . . but I-I . . . I love him. I actually love him."

 _"I know."_

"C-Can you at least tell me if . . . i-if he's going to love me back in this one? This fic is so different. You joke around a lot. Please don't make a fool out of me. I am . . . I am as worthy of any of the rest of your Mollies, you know."

 _"Oh, my Darling, you are,"_ I tell her, _"you heart is so big. You are my most worthy Molly considering the hell it must be to look after that overgrown baby. However, I can't tell you what is going to happen. This is a Shezza fic. Maybe it ends up with you better off without him. That could happen. You are my first priority."_

Molly nods but I can tell she is miserable. I take a deep breath. Wow, her face! She really can make a person feel guilty, but onwards and upwards! Now, where were we? Ah, that's right! Mycroft has arrived in his ugly Multipla. I start hammering the keys again. Molly gives me one last resigned look and hikes up he bag on her shoulder. I return to the story.

* * *

Molly sputtered a sigh and stomped to the Multipla just as the first few drops of rain began to fall. She ducked her head down and glowered into its interior. Mycroft Holmes raised his brows upon seeing her face and blinked several times. He was dressed in a pale grey, plaid suit with a light blue shirt, grey waistcoat and sapphire blue tie. The umbrella he leaned over even matched his ensemble in a similar hue to his tie. She briefly wondered if he had a collection of umbrellas for different outfits.

"Mr. Holmes," she nodded curtly.

"Afternoon, Dr. Hooper," he returned, "I hope I am not inconveniencing you. Would you care to join me for a brief sojourn?"

Molly sighed. "How brief?"

He smiled tightly and tipped his head. "Extremely."

Just as she settled into the seat beside Mycroft and the car began to move, two brawny men threw themselves in front of the car. A pair of beefy hands slammed down on the hood with a thunderous whack.

"Oy! What're ya doing with Dr. Molly?" Leem's muffled voice could be heard through the windshield.

Mycroft huffed and touched a hand to his forehead. "Christ, these two again?!"

Molly sighed and waved at Leem. His gaze flicked sideways and landed upon Mycroft. Dark green eyes popped open and he made an 'eek' face. He ran a hand back over his shorn head and elbowed his brother Fil to his left.

"You dumby, it's just Uncle Myc! She ain't being kidnapped."

Mycroft exhaled a loud, rattling sigh. "Seriously, they are not even trying to be professional any more. If it were not for their patron, I would assign them to the embassy in Montserrat."

Molly smiled. Her nose wrinkled as she noticed a soft look in his eyes.

"You love them though," she observed under her breath.

He swiveled his head with an aghast expression. His lips turned down.

"Don't be ridiculous!"

She shrugged. She had learned that the two brothers had been recruited from an idle life by Mycroft after they were basically left orphaned as teens and they quite looked up to him as a surrogate faather. They had terribly garbled Brummy accents but were brilliant, really. Leem had an almost savant-like propensity for languages while Fil had a better understanding of mathematics than some University profs. They had a tendency to come off as complete boors, though, given their bombastic personalities and inclination to bicker with one another.

Mycroft gestured for them to leave with a dismissive flick of his nails. "Your job is to protect Sherlock from himself, not traipse after Dr. Hooper!"

Fil stuck his lip out. "Yeah, but there'd be no fixin' the bugger if anything happened to Dr. Molly."

"Well, she is with me so you can . . . oh, you can both piss off!"

Both brothers' eyes went round. Molly couldn't quite make out their conversation but they seemed to find Mycroft's outburst incredulous. They exchanged another rapid fire of words, lifted their shoulders and then appeared to head back in the direction of Molly's flat. Once they were out of the way, Mycroft instructed his driver to carry on.

"How is Sherlock?"

Molly's face flashed hot for a moment as she remembered their unexpected kiss. "H-He's mostly good, I guess."

"Any side effects from the vaccine? I am quite worried he might start compulsively eating. Ah, it . . . it is something that runs in the family."

She swallowed. Her face grew even warmer.

"He, erm, hasn't shown any signs of that particular affliction."

Mycroft shifted on the seat next to her. "But there is something?"

"I don't know," her voice strained, "perhaps or perhaps not. It is early yet."

"Dr. Hooper, I insist you tell me-"

Molly wanted to die. "N-Not on your life! Erm, I mean, as his physician I am not at liberty to discuss it with you!"

She snapped her face towards the window and prayed he did not press any further.

Mycroft cleared his throat and then hummed. "I see, forgive me, Doctor. Well, you must assure me then that you will oversee his care in this matter then. Whatever you need to do to ascertain his condition, see to it personally. No one _, no one_ else must be involved. If Sherlock's enemies were to discover a weakness, they would use it against him. "

Molly nodded as she swallowed. There were few options for determining what she suspected was happening to Sherlock.

 _"Test him?"_ She asked herself. _"How does one 'test' for an insatiable sexual appetite?"_

"Dr. Hooper?"

She glanced back at Mycroft. She hoped her eyes weren't as large as they felt.

"Will you do this for me?" He asked.

Her head bobbed tentatively in agreement even as she was freaking out on the inside.

 _"Good Lord, what have I gotten myself into?"_


	6. Chapter 6

Molly glanced from her laptop to Sherlock's sitting on her kitchen peninsula.

 _"Porn!"_ Her inner voice shouted. _"Excessive, compulsive consumption of porn is one of the first signs of a sex addiction."_

She sighed. Her mind was reeling from the internet black hole of sex addiction research. For the most part, she felt that none of what she had read described Sherlock's behavior. At least, not yet. She tapped her foot beneath her stool nervously. Mycroft's plea from the day before resonated in her mind.

 _"Whatever you need to do . . ."_

Did that give her the mandate to violate his privacy. she wondered? She gritted her teeth. She could not believe that she was contemplating going through his internet history in search of porn sites he might have visited.

 _"Dooooo eeeet!"_ A voice commanded.

Molly frowned and glanced up at the ceiling. Then, as if nudged by an invisible force (we all know who's in charge here), she pushed her computer aside and reached for Sherlock's. Her fingers danced on the top of it for a few seconds before she inhaled sharply and flipped it open. She breathed a sigh of relief when the lock screen appeared.

"Well, there goes that idea," she muttered, "I don't know the password!"

 _"Redbeard."_

Molly growled in frustration and shook a fist at the roof. "Good lord! You are determined to get me in trouble, aren't you?"

 _"Not at all. Go on. Put your mind at ease."_

She shook her head slowly as she pointedly entered the password. The machine accepted it and booted up the desktop.

"Oooh, why do I have a feeling this is going to land me in hot water?" Molly grumbled.

 _"Come on. You're all alone. The boys aren't due back for a bit yet. I have it on good authority the shops are a bit busy today and Fil is having trouble finding the crisps he prefers."_

Molly flexed her shoulders and huffed air out through her nose. She muttered to herself about being 'damned either way' and opened up his browser. She clicked through a few things before finding his history list. With one last gulp, she started scrolling through his most recently visited websites.

She snorted at the first few dozen listings. "What a cheat!"

If he was obsessed with anything at that moment, it was tips and tricks on how to beat someone at the most recent version of 'Modern Warfare' which was the video game he and the boys had been playing. She continued to scroll while shaking her head. He had read a few news articles, actually several different sources, detailing the same discovery of a murdered businessman. Nothing out of the ordinary there. He had visited his own blog as well as John's blog. She did a double take when she saw that he had visited her blog. She blinked at that. In fact, he had jumped in and out of it several times.

"Hmph."

Molly hadn't updated that silly thing in a million years. There was nothing on there except . . . she groaned. Just some rather embarrassing musings about the man himself!

Her face burned. She bit her lip and continued her scan through the history there and then on his other browser. She then opened up his 'downloads' folder and skipped through a few of his files until she was satisfied there was nothing salacious to be found. If Sherlock was looking at porn online, he was doing it in incognito mode.

"Well, this was a waste of time!"

She leaned on her elbow and palmed her chin. Her right finger drew little circles on the touch pad. If she was being honest with herself, she was a bit disappointed. She was quite curious about his interests after what had happened between them. He had kissed her, after all, and more than that, he had become aroused. So, he was capable of experiencing desire. She longed to know what turned him on. What would get Sherlock's blood pumping, she pondered? She imagined him sitting in that very spot, cock in hand. She envisioned him stroking the length of it while listening to the heady moans and cries of pleasure from a couple going at it on screen. All of a sudden, she was very warm. She sat up and fluffed her shirt. For a few seconds, she stared at the search engine on his browser. In the next instant, she had typed in the name of a popular porn site and was browsing videos. She looked back over her shoulder then returned her gaze to the screen.

 _"Just a few clips,"_ she reasoned, _"and then I will delete the last hour of history."_

With that, Molly proceeded to watch a few self-wank videos, then progressed to a couple 'fucked on the kitchen counter' snippets and finally found herself viewing a woman in an amateur-style video engaged in a threesome with her husband and his buddy. She tapped the volume louder.

"Well, that escalated," she whispered, "damn."

She rubbed her lips together and wriggled on her chair. Her toes scrunched in her socks. The breath feathering past her lips as she took in the activities on screen felt blisteringly hot. Suddenly, she was dying to touch herself. Just as she moved a hand to the front of her pants, she heard a deep voice at her back.

"Molly?" Sherlock murmured. "What are you doing with my laptop?"

 _"Noooooooooooooooooo!"_ Her inner voice screamed.

Her shoulders tensed, she slammed the computer closed and spun on her stool. At her back, the video played for several seconds. The woman at the center of the threesome shrieked in pleasure while Molly looked in horror up at Sherlock. Then, the laptop caught up to itself and went silent. Molly covered her face with her hands.

 _"Oh my god, oh my god, oh my god . . ."_

She peaked over her fingers. Sherlock's gaze was stone beneath his hooded form. He pushed the grey jersey back off his head, strode forward, reached past her and flipped open his computer. He tapped the touch pad and the video picked up again. She shrank back against the counter as the keening wails began anew. She said a prayer and begged for deliverance (I chuckle, yeah right!). She thought she was going to die of mortification.

"Bloody hell," Molly cursed, "I am sorry, okay? Oh, fuck . . ."

He tilted his head down to peer at her. "Is this what you like?"

She groaned in utter humiliation. "No! Maybe! Eeerg, yes, a bit. Just to watch! I don't really want to be sandwiched between two men, okay? I am quite content with one-on-one shagging."

Heat raged through her face as she blubbered. Then, she heard clicks. She glanced back at the screen.

"Oh, shite, no! Don't!"

She tried to smack Sherlock's hand away but he snatched her wrist, held it firm and continued his exploration of her history. He replayed a noisy clip of a fellow drilling his partner atop a kitchen island with her legs splayed apart.

"Sherlock-"

Molly's voice trailed off when she felt the brush of his thumb pad against her pulse. Her skin tingled under his gentle touch. She shakily gawped at the sight then lifted her eyes. Sherlock stretched his neck and then turned his blue-green scrutiny to her face.

"Is this more like the kind of activity you would prefer to engage in?"

His thumb stroked over her hammering pulse again. Her tongue went numb while she gaped up at his beautiful face. Damn, but he was an attractive beast, she cursed to herself. He hadn't yet started dressing in his tailored garb but he had shaved and showered again that day. She didn't think there was another person on the planet who could look half as sexy in his grey track suit. Not only that, but he smelled of male and the bar of classic Imperial Leather soap she had bought. Her mouth watered.

"Molly?"

"Mmuh-huh?"

He licked his lips. His intense focus lingered on her mouth before piercing to her very soul again.

"Would you like to be shafted on your kitchen counter?"

Air hissed past her teeth and then her chest seized.

"I-Is that a rhetorical question?" she asked hoarsely.

His eyelid fluttered and he shook his head slowly.

"No."

Molly's breaths became shallow to the point she was panting. "B-But yesterday you didn't want me-"

He jerked his head sideways. A frown marred his brow.

"No, yesterday I thought I had overstepped a boundary and was taking advantage of you. Today, it seems you might, in fact, want me to do that."

She swallowed. "Leem and Fil-"

"Won't be back for hours. They think I am attending a counseling session."

Her eyes went round. "W-Wait, y-you should be there right now! You-"

Sherlock heaved a great sigh. "The only treatment I need for what ails me right now . . ."

His chest rose and fell several times.

". . . is you."


	7. Chapter 7

"The only treatment I need for what ails me right now . . . is you."

Molly's ears rang. Temptation was the proposition of having sex with Sherlock Holmes.

"Would you like to be shafted on your kitchen counter?"

On her fancy new composite stone counter tops.

She squeezed her eyes tightly to cut off the tractor beam of his ever-changing blue eyes. Then she opened her lids and blinked a few times.

"Sherlock-?"

He crooked a brow.

"Have you gone completely mental?"

He groaned and rustled his hair with his hands. Then, he gingerly reached for her wrist. He looked down at it a moment. She could feel the gentle press of each elegant digit as they encircled her joint.

"Molly," he panted, "would you mind very much if I . . . gave you a better idea of how you have affected me?"

Her pulse positively pounded underneath his fingertips. Numbly, she nodded. He guided her hand to the front of his pants. Just before her fingers made contact, their eyes met. In the next heartbeat, she could feel the stiffness of his erection through the soft fabric of his track pants. Even though she half-expected it, she still gasped at the sear of that hot, hard length through the thinnest of barriers. Sherlock's nostrils expanded and his lids fluttered. She swallowed at the way his lips parted, as if in relief. Then his hand urged hers to map his arousal which she did in a daze.

Sherlock leaned forward. His forehead touched hers. His warm breaths feathered down her face, tickling over her lips. For a moment, he remained there as if fighting for control.

"Molly," he rasped at long last, "I - oh, to hell with it."

His mouth drifted down. His lips brushed her cheek. The anticipation of kissing him again increased her heart rate until it hammered in her ears. When his nose bumped hers and his lips whispered past hers, her heart almost seized. She turned her head up to kiss him, but he was maddeningly out of reach. He took a breath and let it out again. Its humid release scalded her lips.

"Sherlock," she whispered, "please, d-don't do this."

"Don't do what?" he asked gruffly.

"Arrrg, don't make me wait any longer! Kiss me for fucks' sake."

With a grunt, Sherlock's lips slammed onto hers. His sudden invasion into her space nearly knocked her off her stool as her head bent back. His arms caught her off her seat to his chest and he teetered back. Molly planted her feet on the tile floors and went at him, returning his kiss with a near desperation. To hell with his reasons for wanting her, she thought, and consequences be damned! Her body was still overly-hot from watching porn and she was mindless with need to slake her lust. She had two options, fetch her vibrator from her room or utilize the perfectly acceptable erection she had inspired on the ridiculously fit Sherlock Holmes. It was a lonely woman's fantasy come to life.

She suppressed a throaty sigh as her fingers found his waistband. Her hands greedily slipped under the loose elastic of the over-sized pants while their lips fought for dominance.

"Fffffuck, Sherlock, you aren't wearing any underwear," she hissed against his lips, "and oh, my god your arse is fantastic!"

"Is it now?" he rumbled. "I suppose that is what happens when one's activities are limited to lounging around here or going to the local gym."

She gently scraped her nails over his taut bum. "My word, the gym's been a good use of your time, Sherlock."

His cheeks flexed. She wanted to bite his arse, literally chew a piece off.

Sherlock kissed her again, this time his lips coaxed hers open and his tongue slipped into her mouth. Her sex stung with a rush of arousal when their tongues slid together. She clutched his bum eagerly. His rear wasn't just hard, it was outrageously firm like the rest of his body. A thousand anatomy lessons surged through her head as she explored the contours of that curvature and concluded that yes, in fact, Sherlock could easily shaft her atop her counter and into oblivion.

Kissing soon turned into clawing at one another's clothing. Sherlock's sweats were handily dispatched. Molly's trousers and pants fell easily to the floor but her top proved a little more resistant. In their haste, buttons were forgotten and her shirt got stuck on her head.

"Bah!" she cursed as she struggled to pull it off, "Jesus H. Christ on the cross!"

Sherlock laughed and gently clasped her forearms. She turned her chin up and pouted even though she couldn't see him. Her hair, caught up with the shirt pulled at her scalp.

"D-Do not laugh at me! This is already awkward enough."

His hands stroked over her shirt and tugged it back. The fabric pulled at the bridge of her nose but didn't dislodge.

"I wouldn't say this is awkward," he murmured, "I kind of like this, actually."

"You are not good, Sherlock."

"Oh, I know I am not."

His free hand slid around her back and unclasped her bra while the other held the ends of her shirt. She felt her bra slack before he tugged it from her shoulders. She inhaled a shuddering breath when cool air perked her nipples. Heat flushed down her chest as the moment stretched out. She was effectively blindfolded by her shirt and could not see the look on his face. What did he think of her modest breasts, she wondered? Were they too small? Too pale? Did she have too many freckles, especially the large one on the side of her right breast? She began to tremble. What if he was disappointed in what he saw?

Before she could entertain another doubt, Sherlock's large, calloused hand flattened into the small of her back and she was jerked against his raging hard-on. At the same his tongue lapped around her left nipple and he sucked it into his mouth.

"Aaaaah!" she bent against him. "Ho-ly, fuck!"

Molly's sex clenched between her legs while he continued his erotic assault on her senses. His lips and tongue alternately lapped, tugged, and flicked her nipple until she was quivering like a plucked guitar string. The steely pads of his fingers pressed into her back and he moved on to her other breast. She could barely stand; her legs felt like gelatin shaking in a bowl. When she was almost sobbing from the pleasure, Sherlock's lips worked their way up between her breasts, his tongue dipped into her clavicle and then he scraped his teeth ever so lightly on the flesh of her neck. As he rose, his chest hair tickled her nipples and his rigid cock strained urgently against her belly.

Molly's breaths became more and more erratic. She couldn't draw a steady breath; each rattled into her body as if her windpipe was vibrating like a tuning fork. Sherlock Holmes made her feel like a virgin out of a soppy romance novel; like she was new to everything he was doing. When he licked a patch of skin and sucked hard on the side of her throat, her knees actually buckled. He held her firm to prevent her from collapsing. She clutched onto his waist with shaky hands. Every inch of him was as hard and unyielding as his erection. Inside, she swirled with conflict. She wanted everything he promised, yet her inner pragmatist kept running in circles throwing out fliers with the word 'DOOM' stamped on them.

"Steady now, Molly," Sherlock chided on her neck, his tone hummed through her, "we have only just begun."

"Oh, God, Sherlock, I-I . . . I am not going to survive this."

He kissed along her jaw. "Of course you're not . . . not if I do my job right."

She felt a pull on her shirt and Sherlock's mouth claimed hers again. This time, his kiss had much more intent, his tongue thrusts were much more raw. They kissed until they were both gasping for air.

"Molly," he broke away briefly, "do you still have that box of condoms in your night stand?"

"Wh-? How did you-? Oh, never mind! Yes."

"Excellent, before I get them, though, I think we should remove this shirt."

Molly nodded. She needed some sort of relief. She was on fire. In a matter of seconds, he worked apart a button and finally pulled the fabric away. She was struck by his appearance. His skin was pink, his lips looked plump and his hair was in wild disarray. He licked his lips when they made eye contact.

"Are you ready for the next step, Molly Hooper?"

She swallowed. Her face burned with embarrassment. The blindfold had been an effective lull into the fantasy of what was going on between them. This. This was all too real.

Her stomach gurgled. "Ready? Oh, fuck no. Oh, fuck, Sherlock, I am definitely not ready but I am so h-horny right now . . ."

Her eyes drifted down to his generous endowment squished between them. Slick, shiny fluid seeped from the slit on the end. A throbbing, blue vein curled around one side, she could almost see it pulsing with blood. When her eyes flitted up again, another scorch of heat flooded her face. Sherlock's nostrils flared before his eyes hooded.

"You look warm, Molly, I think you need to cool down a bit."

She stared up at him expectantly. He blinked slowly, slid his hands down her sides then coaxed her hips to turn. When her back was to him, he pushed her up against the square edge of her counter. His cock jutted between her cheeks. He pumped his hips a couple of times with a grunt, his rigid flesh wedged deeper in her crevice.

"Unh, fuck, how am I supposed to cool down?" she whispered.

"Like this," his hand glided up her back and pushed her towards the counter's surface. First her belly contacted the smooth, faux stone surface and then her nipples stung as they were chilled by the contact. She gripped the opposite side up the peninsula as he ran his hands down her back and over her bum. He gave her a gentle slap.

"Stay right there," he murmured into her ear, "I will return shortly."

Molly laid over her counter. Her toes curled on her floor. She gulped back a nervous lump and peered sideways at her newly renovated kitchen. A nervous laugh bubbled from her throat. She was buck naked in the middle of her flat waiting for her dream man to come fuck the living daylights out of her. There would be no cooling down. In fact, she was becoming even more aroused thinking about the vulnerable position she was in. Her inner chamber was in a lather. She didn't need to check, she knew she was incredibly wet already.

She began to quiver again when the slap of footsteps heralded the return of Sherlock. He paused behind her and she heard him huff. A moment later, a grey rubber package that had been torn open skidded onto the counter next to her face. She listened to the snap of latex and the creak of it rolled on. Again, her toes scrunched on the floor until they began to go numb. Hands sought her hips, fingers curled over her hip bones and pulled her back a bit. Her flesh squeaked in resistance over the smooth surface.

"Did that help?"

Molly stood up on her toes to present her bum as best as she could. "Not at all."

"Mmmnnnn, well, then we'll have to work it out of you, won't we?"

"Uh-huh," she whimpered.

Hands caressed her backside again, fingers tested her wetness. Molly's legs jittered as a knee nudged them apart. Cool air prickled her sex. Her mind raced again.

 _"It's happening,"_ she told herself, _"this is happening."_

Inside, her tension wound tight. Hair stood up on her arms. Goose pimples washed over her back and rear.

"Please, Sherlock," she begged as her cleft throbbed. "I need it so badly."

A knuckle kneaded her entry, spreading her arousal around. A finger rubbed her clit.

"How badly, Molly?"

She groaned in frustration. "Oh, my god, I hate you! Do me already!"

"So impatient."

Molly thought she was prepared but realized very quickly she could never have prepared for this moment. As soon as she felt his head press into her cleft, her shaking renew with vigor. She was going to have sex with Sherlock. Sherlock! The very same Sherlock she had thought about shagging every day since the day she met him. She almost balked at that moment thinking that nothing could ever live up to the fantasies she'd had, but then he began to stretch her apart. Her breath formed a fog on the counter next to her cheek as she panted for air. The fantasies had never, never come close to this sensation, to how good his girth felt.

She closed her eyes. She knew she would remember the moment forever, the pressure and the push and the crinkles of the condom as he moved ever inward. She squeezed on him as he entered, desperate to feel every ripple of every muscle. When he was finally seated inside, his hips plumped her backside. He leaned over her and kissed her shoulder. She experienced an anxious spasm in her belly. She clutched onto the heady circumference of him.

 _"Oh, my god. He's inside me. Sherlock is inside me!"_

She squeezed him once more just to verify his presence. Before she could reconcile his being a part of her, his fingers bit into her hips and he began to cycle his hips. At first, his thrusts were controlled. Then, his pace increased and Molly had to hold onto the counter as his strokes came harder and faster with each return. Her flesh pulled where it stuck to the counter. The edge poked into her stomach. Over and over he plunged into her womb until all she could feel was his fast, slick friction and her ears were filled with his huffs in tune with the slap of their flesh together. In her mind's eye, she envisioned what they must look like, a real life version of the videos she had watched. Above her, Sherlock groaned.

"Aaah, Molly, you feel so good," he uttered.

Molly pushed her backside up as much as possible; her toes burned and her feet ached with the effort. She felt like a dancer at the end of an extended pirouette trying to fend off a steamroller. Still, she held herself aloft as best she could. His pressure on her cunt was perfect and relentless, like he was trying to dislodge something within. She realized she was crying aloud with each thrust and becoming more vocal as she came closer and closer to her release. As her ache increased, so too did his frequency. Soon, she knew she was at the point of no return. Her orgasm became a boulder tumbling down a cliff.

"Mm, Molly, I am nearly there. Wh-What do you need?"

She pulled at the counter. "Oh, shite, j-just you. Just a bit more. Please!"

Sherlock redoubled his efforts. That was all it took, his ravaging and another erotic image of their frenzied coupling in her brain. Her runaway boulder reached the base of the cliff and shattered into a million pieces. She keened and cried as the destruction overtook her form. Spasms ricocheted through her core like the spray of the rock's remnants. Then, her womb pulsed over and over, its release sent a chemical reaction through her body that liquefied her bones. In the midst of it, Sherlock let out his own, long groan and jolted her a final time. She just barely registered the feel of his cock transforming, of it shifting gears and the sputtering of his ejaculation. Hands slapped against the counter either side of her body as his hips bucked.

"Huuuh," he hissed, "huuu-u-uuh."

Sherlock collapsed down on his elbows as his cock continued to twitch. His warm, heavy torso pressed down on her for several moments. Then, he retracted and she heard him swear softly.

It was a decidedly un-sexy curse. Molly heaved herself off the counter and turned with a wobble. His hand shot out to steady her on her feet.

"What? What is it? Tell me you don't regret this already!" she whispered.

Sherlock looked up from his groin. Sweat dripped down his temple and he shook his head.

"I do not regret having sex with you Molly."

His hand worked on something below before holding up an utterly destroyed condom. His lips pressed into a line briefly as he inspected the ragged latex.

"I regret not having more sense than to don a rubber two-sizes too small."

That's when Molly felt it, something slick. Something more than just her own arousal between her legs.

"Oh, my god," she slapped a hand over her mouth.

The condom had ruptured.


	8. Chapter 8

Well, sorry about the hiatus, folks, as you can imagine Molly is a wee bit pissed at me for the whole condom stunt . . . erm, among other happenings.

*CRACK*

"Damnit, stop throwing things!"

Another glass flask smashes against the inside of my screen. I let out a long breath to steady my nerves. Molly shakes her head as she resumes work at her lab bench. I don't blame her, really. It's been months of suspended animation since she and Sherlock succumbed to their passions in her flat. So, she's had to live in limbo not knowing where I intend to take her story. I had meant to return earlier-

"This is a shite universe!" she mutters under her breath. "Utter shite."

"I know, I'm sorry bab-"

I choke on my own words as I observe her lip tremble. She looks miserable.

"I can't believe she's gone," Molly whispers sadly.

I grimace. Since I started typing not too long ago, there are a lot of things canon in this story that weren't canon when I left it. Molly just learned that she is actually starring in a semi-compliant Sherlock Season-4 fic where Mary has died (though, I'll be damned if I'm going to take any crap for it, that was all Moftiss' doing!) and Sherlock is completely off the rails because of it. Fortunately for him, he doesn't actually become high anymore when he shoots up, even though he continues to pump poisons into his body. He can't because the drug vaccine actually worked. Instead, in his grief, he has glommed on to the idea that there is a serial killer at work to distract himself from the pain as well as find a way to get back into John's good graces.

I hear a rattle below me.

"Oh, good lord, what time is it?" Molly sputters.

I flex my fingers. Oh, yeah, she's got somewhere to be! Time to get back to the story. Shall we?

* * *

"Stop," Sherlock batted Molly's hand away gently, "I do not actually want to be examined."

Molly glowered down at him stretched out on the cot in the back of the ambulance. She inhaled a breath.

"Y-You are . . . not . . . high, are you?'

He shook his head. His pupils constricted from a flash of lights through the side window of the vehicle as it bounced around a corner. Molly scoffed and stood up to slam the stethoscope back into its compartment. For a few seconds she leaned her hands against the upper cabinets to brace herself against the jostle of the ambulance's bumpy ride and closed her eyes to silently curse her foolishness. She looked down at the scruffy detective when she felt a tug on her lab coat.

"Stop it," she muttered and yanked the fabric from his grasp, "just stop it."

She tried to step back to take a seat but the ambulance careened and threw her off balance. The consulting detective took advantage of the situation and next thing she knew, she was under Sherlock on the cot and beating his chest with her fists while his legs stretched out, one powerful thigh rested between her legs. She felt his knees squeeze hers.

"Why?" she rasped. "Why did you bring me here?"

Sherlock's chest expanded. His straggly curls dangled over his forehead. His eyes flitted back and forth over her face. She pressed her lips together as she noted the change in his frame. He was more gaunt than she remembered. His clavicle was well-defined by shadow where his shirt hung open. She had to resist ogling his neck.

"Why?" she choked out.

"Because I knew John would ask you otherwise and I had something to prove to him-"

She swallowed thickly. "S-So, I am just part of another one of your schemes."

"No!" he denied before poking his lips out and cocking his head to one side and making a face. "Well, sort of, it's complicated-"

She covered her eyes when she felt them sting and hiccuped. Sherlock's hand cupped her face and his thumb brushed her cheek.

"I . . . there is m-much I would like to explain, Molly. Please? I will, I swear it but I must do this for John and . . . f-f-for M-Mary."

She whipped her hands away and glared up at him through a film of misery. "Don't you dare . . . don't you dare! Th-This is all for you, it's always been all about you!"

He shook his head. "Not this time. I need to save John."

She groaned and shook him by the collar of his shirt, a couple more buttons popped open.

"But who will save you?" she cried.

"Easy answer?" he asked roughly, his lips twitched. "You."

Molly growled and lurched her head up from the wafer-thin pillow to kiss him. Sherlock groaned and kissed her back. His stubble poked into the flesh around her mouth as his plump lips worked their maddeningly insistent magic. She wriggled beneath him when his tongue slipped into her open mouth and tempted hers to rebuke him. His hips rocked and she felt the burgeoning strain of an erection. For several glorious moments, she succumbed to her hunger for the man and let her body instinctively grind upwards. When a sudden swerve by the driver nearly threw them from the narrow bed, she ripped her lips away. It had only been a week or so since they had been together and that had ended in disaster. If she hadn't already agreed to meet him that day, she wouldn't be there at all. No good could come from fooling around in an ambulance. Fortuitously, the large vehicle lurched to a stop and Molly scrambled out from under him.

She hastily rearranged her clothing and attempted to fix her hair. When she looked down, her fingers shook. She couldn't remember if her cardigan had been unbuttoned or not. Would John sense something was amiss? She felt a wash of guilt. She was ashamed of herself for being too weak and selfish to resist Sherlock. Also, even though she did not agree with John and his blaming Sherlock for Mary's death, it caused her great anxiety to think that the good doctor might feel she had taken Sherlock's side against him. She cursed as she buttoned and then changed her mind and unbuttoned the confounded sweater. She heard a low chuckle.

"Do not laugh at me, you arse!"

Sherlock shrugged and smirked as he refastened his buttons. "I wouldn't think of it."

"I-I am serious," she chided him, "we're friends. Friends shouldn't do this . . ."

Sherlock's nose scrunched and his next utterance dripped with disdain. "Friends."

"Sherlock-"

Before she could speak, the rear doors flew open. Things proceeded in a whirlwind as the pair continued to bicker. Molly put on a show and fibbed about some 'findings' in the presence of John as Sherlock hopped out of the ambulance with a spring in his step. Almost immediately, his drug-addled act returned. It churned her stomach and she found herself feeling nauseous for a few seconds, especially when Culverton Smith approached them. Molly only saw a flash of his janky leer as Sherlock deliberately stepped in front of her and squared his back. However, even out of sight, she could still almost feel the television personality's disturbing presence as if his aura were a dark cloud that had blotted out the sun. She was thankful to have Sherlock's broad shoulders as a bulwark against such a man.

After a short exchange, the three men and a gaggle of people headed for the hospital behind Culverton. Molly's hands dangled at her sides; her heart stumbled, a bit pained that she was already forgotten. However, Sherlock's eyes slid just a little farther when he glanced at John and she was ensnared in his penetrating glower again. She gazed helplessly at the momentary flash of apprehension she saw in his depths. Fear spiked up her spine and she shook her head as if to tell him he didn't have to do whatever he was going to do. His lips strained. Dread saturated every cell of her body as she watched his focus drift towards the building. He strode away like a man meeting his destiny.

 _"Oh, Sherlock,"_ Molly lamented silently, _"what are you up to?"_


End file.
